Dealing With Death
by Woodster
Summary: How does a character deal with the death of his companions? This is just one way they might. PM me if you think the rating needs to be higher, and feel free to review.


_"There's too many of them!"_

"_We should never have come here!"_

_"Quick! This way!"_

_"We'll never outrun them!"_

_"They're getting closer!"_

_"This tunnel must lead to the surface!"_

_"They're almost upon us!"_

He sat in the shadows, staring at the tankard on the table. He had emptied it for the eighth time that night, hoping the alcohol would release him from his torture. Yet the memories continued to play in his head, relentlessly torturing him. He could hear his comrade's voices in his head, the guilt building up inside him. His faith was failing him.

_"Elgeon! Lead them to the surface! I'll hold the demons back!"_

_"Panril, there's too many of them! You'll be killed!"_

_"Then at least my death will by you some time, Fhasaadi. Now go!"_

Where did it all go wrong? Was it when they first entered the caverns? Or was it this particular group that were cursed? He cast his mind back to that meeting three days ago.

He was sat at this table in the full light of day, the tavern bustling with people: the regular patrons enjoying their midday break, merchants carrying out their business transactions, and the travellers resting with a mug of ale before continuing their journey. He had been there since dawn, watching and waiting. He had spoken with the landlord, asking him his opinion of any local adventurers. The old man had told the cleric of four in particular who would be able to help him in his quest, and said he would send messengers to them. Then as each entered the tavern, the barman pointed them in the direction of the cleric's table.

The first to arrive was Dagger, a young boy of fifteen who was blessed with quick fingers and a quick wit. Then came the local wizard, Gragold Brushranger. The old Halfling's local reputation of a master of simple tricks disguised his power and skill in the arcane arts. The next to arrive was the Elven archer, Fhasaadi Soundinghorn. Beneath her cold exterior lay fiery temper that could set alight her arrows. Finally, the legendary hero and swords-master, Panril Spelloyal, arrived. The Half-Elven warrior commanded respect, yet harboured a warm personality.

The Cleric explained his predicament to this group. He told them how a great artefact had been stolen from the temple and how he was sent by the temple leader to retrieve it. He told the group how he had tracked it thus far, and now knew that it lay hidden in the caverns south of the town. This artefact, he told them, was kept in his temple as a symbol of peace between two lands, and that its theft had caused old hostilities to rise. The artefact must be retrieved to stop a war that would have disastrous effects across the known world.

The next day the party left for the taverns in high spirits, reaching them by nightfall. They set up camp for the night, and as soon as dawn broke entered.

"_Is that it?"_

"_Yes, Dagger. That is the jewel of Roth"_

"_That box? Alright, if you say so, Elgeon."_

"_Do you think you can climb up there, Dag?_

"_You insult me, Gragold. Reaching the box is a trivial task. Getting it down is another matter."_

Dagger was the first to die. That memory hurt the most. The boy had barely lived, yet was so cruelly ripped from the world. They should have known it was a trap. They had found the box too easily.

"_Elgeon! I've got… Agh!"_

"_Dagger!"_

As the boy lifted it from the stone, hidden bows had fired, three arrows hitting the body. He fell, along with the box, hitting the stone floor with a crack.

The Cleric jerked from his memories as barmaid placed another tankard on the table. He took a large mouthful of the ale, hoping this time the alcohol would work. The painful memories were wearing him down. There had been nothing they could do for the boy. He had died when he hit the floor, smashing his head. That's when the flesh eaters had attacked.

"_What are they?"_

"_Demons! They feed on living flesh!"_

_TWANG_

"_I thought they were a myth!"_

"_They were, but farmers have recently reported them feeding on their cattle!"_

_WHOOSH_

Although Fhasaadi and Gragold furiously used their missile attacks, more and more demons appeared. The group was forced to flee. They were chased through countless tunnels. Getting nowhere, Panril sacrificed himself for the group.

_"Elgeon! Lead them to the surface! I'll hold the demons back!"_

_"Panril, there's too many of them! You'll be killed!"_

_"Then at least my death will give you some time, Fhasaadi. Now go!"_

The Cleric finished his tankard. The ale was having no effect. The pain kept building, the guilt of dragging these people into that god forsaken hole was choking him. It was torture, a torture more painful than anything that the physical world could throw at him. He had lost all sense of his faith now. How could he do this to them? How could his god let such good people die in such a horrible way?

"_Elgeon! Go! Take the box and run!"_

"_But Panril…"_

"_I don't care what Panril said! If that box doesn't get back to that temple, hundreds will die! What worth are our lives compared to theirs?"_

He had ran like a coward. He left Fhasaadi and Gragold to die. It didn't matter whether or not that had told him to do it. He knew that deep down inside him that he should have fought, there were considerably less monsters then, and with his help they may have defeated them and escaped together. But he had ran. Not for the good of the world, but simply because he was terrified. He was no friend.

- - - - - -

The landlord watched him from his stool at the bar. He had been there all night, drowning his sorrows. But it wasn't working. The pain still showed in the cleric's eyes. He was a shadow of himself, completely changed. When he first arrived, the old man had been impressed by the Clerics appearance. He had stood tall, imposing in his armour, and had an air about him that nothing could shake him from his faith. And now… he was broken. His long blonde hair that was once so well groomed now greasy and untidy. His limbs hung limply. His face gaunt and tired.

He watched as the Cleric finally rose and, leaving some coins, left the tavern. He was saddened to hear of the deaths of the others, but the landlord knew everyone died eventually. So what could destroy a man so completely?

The stable boy found him the next morning. He had hung himself from the rafters. The drink hadn't stopped the agony, but death did.

- - - - - -

**Authors Note**:

This story is purely fiction, based upon an idea I've had for some time. What happens to a character after such an event? I, and other people I know, have often wondered this, and this story shows one path a character may take. I am not a pessimistic person by nature; this is just one possible answer, albeit dark and moody.


End file.
